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Colors meant many things, each color has its own significant meaning. Colors can mean different sense of emotions, feelings, or thoughts just by the way they're used.
Colors mixed in groups, put into palettes of different kinds, can mean many different things to many different people. Color is vast, flexible, and important.
The young teenage man with dull blue eyes stared into the reflection of the mirror before him, tired eyes accompanied by heavy bags beneath them. Auburn hair hung at his shoulders, messy and unkempt for who knew how long.
The color red reflected in the mirror from his red beret and shawl, bright and bold red turned muted by how many times it was worn. The white from his shirt kept a nice balance to it.
His own reflection stared back at him, yet he did not acknowledge it as a person. Colors blending into meaningless shapes that swirled in his vision before him, and he sighs.
Meaningless, was it not? What had he to gain from staring at the obscure reflection before him, it was more like insult to see himself like this from the type of frustrated burnout he couldn't seem fathom that he was having.
These colors could not hold the harmony when he stared before him. The chaotic spirals seemed to mock him when he stared, that he could not turn this inharmonious palette into something cohesive.
At an easel he would stare, the color red bleeding through the cotton of the canvas before him. One stroke meant one step closer to completion, yet why did it feel like he was taking steps back?
Every idea became meaningless once he was the one to behold them, yet he was supposed to be the one to bring them life.
Meaningless, all of it.
Of course he could, he was Edgar Valden. If he couldn't, then who could?
Nobody.
Nobody can.
Every person, every human, could not comprehend art the way he did. When they sought art, they sought for themselves. Human nature is nothing but nasty, once the pigmented paint of a bright yellow stays around to long — there is only the ugliness of a brown left to stay. Even maroon couldn't be as despicable to him.
Everyone was nothing more than mundane filth, unworthy of the true essence of art.
But when he sees himself in the mirror, the spirals of color turning into a disgusting color — what did that make of him? Someone incapable of the pursuit of art? Truly unacceptable.
